The root of all evil (where a run is concerned) is the cookie. Yes, a cookie. Well, no. A bunch of cookies, actually.
This is how it all began. I rushed home only ten minutes off schedule (which I calculated gave me 40 minutes on the treadmill); I fed the princess, started dinner, made a mad dash to change (can’t exactly run in wool) and had just started my session on the gerbil wheel, was only five minutes into it, when I saw a car pull into the driveway. In the very best of moods I am always glad to see visitors, even the unannounced ones. When I’m feeling antisocial it’s a completely different story. I practically crawl under the couch to avoid communication. However, it doesn’t matter how I feel when I’m on the treadmill. I’m in front of a window, big as life and lit up like the lamp from a Christmas Story. I am, without a doubt, definitely home. I could close the curtain but then the light shining through the bright red curtain would give off a Roxanne-Red-Light-District vibe…not the look I’m going for living next to a bunch of single men.
So, anyway. The guests. Up the driveway they came. I hit pause on the tread, thundered down the stairs, welcomed them in, then stood in the foyer talking for twenty minutes. By the time I got back to the run the treadmill had reset itself and my barely started run was gone like pixie dust. Determined to do something I decided screw dinner, screw the schedule. Run until Kisa got home.
In the end I was able to put in another twenty minute run (not counting the aborted five from earlier). Distance-wise it was a measly 1.93 miles, but at least it was something. Anything is better than standing still these days. And the reason for the visit from friends? They brought extremely yummy (yet evil) cookies.